


Waiting Makes Me Antsy

by dancingpenss



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Newsies Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingpenss/pseuds/dancingpenss
Summary: How Finch learns to watch and wait.





	Waiting Makes Me Antsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Newtdew25](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtdew25/gifts).



> For my 2018 Newsies Secret Santa giftee, Newtdew25! I have to confess I did scroll through your blog and kind of noticed that you seem to like Finch as a character, and I’ve had this unfinished in my drafts for months, so I decided that I would finish it up! It sort of…expanded, hopefully you don’t mind that it’s a bit long. (Also, I bs-ed the parts about how CPS works, let’s just pretend that in some world, it’s accurate.)
> 
> And so, I present Finch’s character study, in which he studies other characters (hehe). I hope you like it!!
> 
> ///
> 
> CW: implied child abuse

Finch can’t wait any longer for something to change. Ten years of his life, and nothing has changed at all. He has always hated waiting.

He runs away when he is ten and his name is still Patrick, and hopes desperately that his dad will never find him. He regrets leaving his mother behind, but she could never protect him, so he has to protect himself. She taught him to whistle when he was sad, and he knows he’ll never forget her. That will have to be enough.

In four days, Patrick gets all the way to the heart of Manhattan, which is a long way for a ten year old. He steals someone’s wallet–left carelessly unguarded–the first day, and uses the forty dollars inside to buy hot dogs and bagels until the fourth day, when the money runs out. No one even looks at him twice; an ten year old alone in New York. Well, he’s tall for his age.

His mother’s whistling rings in his ears, gentle and sweet. The tune is one he knows by heart.  _ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. _

Patrick works his way through all the crowds unseen. He’s invisible even to the other pickpockets, and the tired homeless folks. It’s like he doesn’t exist, he thinks with satisfaction. Good. Maybe there’s really a chance his father won’t manage to track him down.

And then, all of a sudden, people start noticing him.

The sun is setting on the fourth day, and the first woman who notices him tries to find his mother, assuming that he has wandered off. He slips away into a nearby alley after fifteen minutes of her increasingly distressed searching, with a spare piece of gum that she gave him and the wallet he stole out of her bag when she wasn’t looking.

The second person is a drunk man in the alley, who leers at him and lurches forward, eyes landing heavily on the wallet in his hand. Patrick drops the wallet, leaving it to the man and hoping he won’t be pursued, as he runs as fast as he can straight into the nearest diner.

The third to notice him is Albert DaSilva, and the fourth is Miss Medda Larkin. Looking over his shoulder to make sure the drunk man isn’t behind him, Patrick hightails it through the restaurant door and collides directly with a boy about his height, who has a scattered map of freckles and a shock of red hair.

The boy staggers back, clutching at Patrick’s arms to keep from falling over. Patrick catches his own balance, and they steady out. The redheaded boy and Patrick share a look of relief, releasing each other and moving to step away.

“Now, who’s this young man, Albert?” A motherly figure suddenly looms over the two boys.

“I dunno, Medda,” Albert says, looking up at her. “I ain’t met him yet.”

Patrick winces at the near-belligerent tone, wondering if he should leave before this lady whacks Albert upside the head, and decides that maybe he could use a smack, too.

“Well, go on, honey, introduce yourself! Remember your manners.” Medda winks at Patrick, who looks at Albert, confused.

Albert shrugs, apparently used to this sort of thing. He shoves his hands in his shorts pockets. “I’m Albert. Nice to meetcha.”

“I’m,” he starts automatically, and chokes on Patrick Cortes. If he tells them, it will all be for nothing, they’ll call his dad, his dad will find him and take him back and it’ll be worse because he tried to run away—

“You breathing, kid?” Medda kneels, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah,” he manages. His throat closes tightly with panic. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t believe he forgot to plan for something this important, but he did, he forgot, and now he can’t think of anything. His name isn’t Patrick, not anymore, not since he ran, it can’t be Patrick, or they’ll find him, it can’t be—

“Can you tell me your name? Nice, and easy; you remember your name, right, kiddo?” She searches his face, her warm hand on his shoulder like an anchor.

He leaps desperately for this out. “No, I—I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing at all, sweetheart? Your parents aren’t here with you?” Medda frowns, something in her eyes going soft and protective at the same time.

“Nothing,” he whispers, unable to meet her gentle gaze. He can feel the back of his neck heating up and turning red.

“Well, then, kid, I think you should come with Albert and I,” Medda says carefully. “And we’ll see if we can’t figure this little mystery out, okay?”

He looks up hesitantly, hating himself for lying. “Okay.”

Albert grins at him, as if sharing a secret. “You ain’t got a name, then?”

“I, uh,” he says anxiously, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

“We’ll get you one,” Albert reassures him, glancing across him as if sizing him up. The red-headed boy’s gaze lands on his fingers, twisted in his sleeve. “Wanna learn how to yo-yo?”

He learns how to yo-yo on the drive to the police station. He whistles— _ you are my sunshine, my only _ —nervously, out of habit, and ducks his head when he realizes that neither Medda nor Albert have told him to stop. He wonders if his mother is worried. But then again, just as surely as he knows she is, he knows that he needs to stop thinking about her, or he’ll try and go back.

At the police station, there are no reports of a missing child matching his description.

They get back in the car and head for the hospital.

He whistles again, anxious. What will happen to him when they don’t find anything? He hates waiting. His fingers drum on the yellow yo-yo. Taptap.  _ You are my sunshine. _ Taptap.  _ My only sunshine. _

“You sound like a bird,” Albert says.

He winces and stops whistling.

“Hey, no, it’s cool. I can’t whistle,” Albert says. “You’re like…a songbird. A nightingale or a finch or something.”

“Finches don’t really sing much, Al, honey,” Medda says from the front seat.

Albert rolls his eyes. “Okay, finches don’t sing, so what?”

“It’s okay, neither do I,” he says, and teaches Albert how to whistle.

They hit the hospital, and no damage can be found, at least nothing to explain his supposedly missing memory. The doctor asks him to take off his oversized hoodie, but he folds his arms stubbornly, the dark green material thick and safe, and refuses.

“Should I go get Ms. Larkin? I’m sure she can convince you,” the doctor says, the dark skin around his eyes crinkling.

“It’s fine,” he says unconvincingly. He doesn’t want her to see. He sheds his hoodie and his soft, worn blue t-shirt.

The doctor’s face turns hard. He looks over the bruises critically. “What happened?”

“I dunno,” he says, hoping that his amnesia cover will hold up.

It does. And there isn’t much to be done for the bruises across his chest and stomach and back and arms, anyway. They’re fading now. It’s been a few days.

The doctor takes Medda aside anyway, and he tries to ignore it by loudly talking to Albert about how he has never played Pokémon, which Albert is happy to just as loudly explain.

Medda comes back with a smile that isn’t coming quite so easily anymore, and waits for the Pokémon conversation to finish before breaking the news.

“Sorry, kid,” she admits, her eyes careful and gentle on him, “but I don’t think I can do anything else to help find your parents. Or figure out your name. Unless…you remember anything? Anything at all?”

“Nothing,” he says again, quietly, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He wishes he didn’t remember anything. Maybe if he pretends hard enough.

“Alright,” Medda says.

“We gonna keep him?” Albert asks casually. He’s pulled out another yo-yo, a red one, to replace the yellow one.

“We’ll see,” Medda says, after a long moment, but she smiles anyway. “My group home is almost at capacity, Al.”

Albert rolls his eyes. “There’s still two whole bunk-beds, Medda. Not like we’re outta room yet.”

“We’ll see,” she says again, but it’s clear that something has been decided.

And that’s how the boy formerly known as Patrick Cortes is fostered by the fourth person who noticed him after he ran away, less than four days after his abrupt departure. As a high-profile employee of the CPS who is apparently known for kicking ass and taking names, Medda has a great deal of pull. On the very same day, she takes him back with Albert to the group home she runs, with only a quick stop by the nearest CPS agency office.

The house is bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside, and is both clean and also full to the brim. The lines of shoes in the hallway are neat, and overflowing into the living room. The kitchen is big, connected to the dining room and its huge table, but has grocery bags on one counter, and half-made pies on another.

There are a few kids in the living room, two reading, one piecing together a poster board project.

They look up curiously at the sound of the door, and he ducks his head, finding himself uncharacteristically timid.

Albert gives him a friendly punch on the shoulder (he tries not to wince; that was a sore spot) and disappears up a set of stairs, presumably to tell everyone that there is a new arrival.

Medda ushers him into the kitchen, for which he is thankful, and hands him a baby name book.

“Take your time, hon. Pick something out,” she says, and leaves with a warm pat on his arm.

He sits down with it at the kitchen table, realizing that he can’t exactly introduce himself to the others until he has a name to give them. He skims through it for a few minutes with all the impatience of an ten year old boy.

The noise of people trickling down the stairs, footsteps and whispers and exclamations cut off by violent shushes, is distracting. He has the horrible feeling that somehow they’ll know. They’ll know that he remembers, that…something. And he can’t find any good names. Frustrated, he shuts it with a loud thud.

He hates waiting. He hates waiting so much.

He starts to whistle absently, hoping for something to spring into his brain.  _ You are my sunshine _ —

Medda comes back, apparently summoned by the noise of the book. “Everyone wants to meet you. You got one yet?”

And suddenly, he has it.

“Finch,” he says.

Medda laughs. “What?”

He grins up at her.

“Finch,” he says. “I like Finch.”

She eyes him. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He tries the name in his head. I’m Finch, nice to meetcha. “I’m sure.”

Medda introduces him to the assembled group in the living room as our newest kid, Finch.

From the corner, with his red yo-yo, Albert catches Finch’s eye and laughs.

Medda gets Finch’s CPS case and amnesiac status officially registered within a week of his arrival at the home where she lives with almost twenty other boys and her co-worker, Mr. Kloppman.

Over half of the boys are in the older group, high school and up. They seem only slightly amused by Finch’s arrival, unlike the younger group, who are vigorously excited.

After Finch has explained himself to several different late arrivals as “Finch. I don’t remember anything before last week. Medda found me,” everyone seems to accept it. They don’t ask questions, which he is grateful for, despite the fact that he can always hide behind his amnesia.

Jack, who, at thirteen, is the oldest of the younger group and the unofficial ringleader, throws an arm around his shoulder and welcomes him into the group before handing him off to the personable and sweet eleven year old Charlie. Charlie, who has a crutch and a permanent limp, reintroduces himself as Crutchie, and then proceeds to introduce him to the rest of the group.

Race: eleven, hardheaded, and Albert’s best friend. Elmer, nine, who only recently arrived.  Specs, twelve, who seems to be the calmest of the whole lot. Mush: nine, who is very quiet and likes candy. Buttons, ten, who dislikes pineapple. The names and faces blur together, especially when Crutchie starts introducing the older kids, and Finch can’t remember who is who at all.

In lieu of being introduced, Albert, whose red hair and freckles are easily identifiable, gives Finch an understanding look and tells him that he’ll get used to it. Finch hopes so.

A week into his stay, the others are already accustomed to Finch’s habit of whistling, and his choice of name is readily understood. They don’t even try to replace it with another nickname, like the ones that many of the boys have. Nobody knows that it came from the conversation in the car, though; nobody but Medda and Albert and Finch himself. Either way, Patrick Cortes really is dead and Finch has officially taken his place.

They give him a welcome-to-this-mess gift: a slingshot, which he becomes deeply acquainted with.

As the months go by, Finch learns a lot about the kids he is going to school and fighting over the bathroom with. Plenty of them tell their stories readily, and without prompting, much to his own surprise.

Others stay quiet about their stories, but Finch can’t blame them. He isn’t very forthcoming either, although he supposedly has his amnesia to thank for that. He doesn’t really understand the ones who are so open about their misfortunes, but decides that maybe they just don’t want to keep secrets. That’s fine by him. He doesn’t like lying himself, but he’ll do it anyway.

At least for now.

Finch feels more and more comfortable, and grows into his cheeky grin, learns that he can stick out his tongue without fear of retribution. He still misses his mother, and he still dreams about his father on especially dark nights, and he starts to love this family he’s accidentally found.

Months turn into years. There are new arrivals; sly Henry, cheerful JoJo. Ryan, who is missing an eye, quickly adopts the moniker of Blink, and becomes inseparable with Mush. Spot, who comes with nickname attached, whose real name only Medda knows, and who is quiet and secretive with everyone but Jack. (And sometimes Race, with whom he constantly argues.) Even a set of twins: Mike and Ike, who are as friendly and outgoing as if they hadn’t seen their parents murdered in front of them by a mugger two months before. The years go by, and most of the older kids age out of the foster home and leave to make their way in the world, and suddenly Finch is sixteen and finds that he, himself, is one of the older kids. Jack is nineteen, and has a scholarship to a fancy art school, although he still lives with the rest of them.

Finch never confessed the truth about his fake amnesia, or about his parents. But…it doesn’t matter anymore. Not to him, certainly not to any of the others. And he’s not going to wait around is suspense for the truth to come out. It seems like such a small thing now, and he thinks that probably most of his family know by now anyway. Finch is happy and doesn’t plan on being unhappy any time soon.

At seventeen, Finch gets a job manning the cash register at Jacobi’s Diner, which was their go-to sandwich shop, and the same shop where he had the luck to run into Albert all those years before. Things are different from behind the counter.

At first, sitting behind the counter and waiting for customers, waiting for the placed orders to be ready, seems stifling. Waiting is awful in any capacity; it’s stagnant and dull and makes him rankle and his stomach churn and his fingers tap.

Finch doesn’t wait, he moves; he has to move, always forward, never back.

And then…and then, Finch grows to like it, likes that people rely on him, likes that his job has a good boss and good co-workers with a light atmosphere. He likes talking to the people who come in, likes ribbing his family whenever they come in, which is often.

Somehow, it gives Finch a whole new perspective on so many things.

He sees Race and Spot from an angle he never has before. He notices the frustrated glares and argumentative banter that he always saw, but he sees fondness, too, and maybe something more, hidden in Spot’s smirks and the way Race chews his gum more obnoxiously when Spot is around.

He sees Mike and Ike, who are the closest of brothers, connected at the hip, and he sees their different orders, carefully placed. How they always buy different sandwiches, different sodas. Finch wonders if proving their differences to themselves gives them the confidence to act interchangeable in front of others.

Finch sees Blink and Mush, who are best friends. He sees how Much warns Blink of obstacles on his blind side without conscious thought, and how Blink can make Mush laugh long and hard, his white teeth blinding against his dark skin. He sees how deeply they understand each other, and thinks of Mush, who was so quiet and reserved, if sweet, before Blink came, and the hard set of Blink’s jaw the day he arrived.

Finch sees how Romeo is never hesitant in his interactions, and sees, too, the nagging insecurity that he never noticed before from the loud, outgoing seventeen year old. He can see Romeo’s expressions from a different angle, and suddenly finds himself reading why did I say that, why did I do that, bad choice of words, I shouldn’t have smiled so wide, on Romeo’s face where before he read only confidence. He charges into every conversation, and regrets every word, unless someone he knows can provide a reassuring presence.

Finch sees, too, how Specs watches. Finch himself has always been one to leap into action; ready to jump, though he doesn’t know how he’s going to land. Now, as he learns to watch from behind the counter, as his friends and brothers come and go, he sees that Specs has always watched. He observes the others, he thinks before he speaks. His is a quiet energy, though it is passionate. It just takes up less space than Jack’s battered ego, or Race’s careless confidence. He leads the others, just like they do; only he leads in silent surety.

He sees other things, too: Buttons and Elmer, who have more than big families in common. JoJo, who can be as quiet or loud as he chooses, but who is always optimistic, even when the world is hard; Henry, who is oblivious to JoJo’s quiet, warm glances. Crutchie, who smiles when he’s happy, and when he’s sad.

Finch sees the way Jack looks at all of them: the hands on their shoulders, the protective gazes, the fondness, the fear that he might reach for one of them and find an empty space where there should be a brother. The day that Jack walks in with his arm slung around the shoulder of a girl with auburn hair, grinning wide and chatting avidly, Finch sees how she smiles back at him. The day he walks in with an arm slung around the shoulder of a tall boy with dark hair and an endearingly skeptical expression, Finch sees how that boy’s eyes smile, too.

The next time Jack comes in, it’s all three of them, together, and the girl is laughing, and the tall boy is smiling, and Jack is content, and his smile reaches his eyes, and Finch wonders which of them he is in love with, or if it might be both.

And then there’s Albert. Albert, who Finch never stopped trading glances and secretive laughs with. While Finch has always been friends with everyone, Albert is…Albert is Albert. Albert is a little special.

Even Albert looks a little different from behind the counter. If Finch thinks maybe his smiles are warmer, his looks brighter—well. Finch doesn’t mind this new perspective.

He still has red hair and freckles, but he has a skateboard instead of a yo-yo, and his grin is just as belligerent, if a little more devilish. He comes in sometimes and gives an over-exaggerated wink when he sees that it’s Finch behind the counter. When Finch whistles absentmindedly— _ my only sunshine _ —Albert fills in the next notes, having heard the song a thousand times.

_ You make me happy when skies are gray. _

Finch wonders sometimes when his mother’s song became like a secret exchange between them, but he always whistles back.

_ You’ll never know, dear— _

_ How much I love you,  _ Albert whistles.

Finch gets off of work one afternoon, and Albert is waiting, and offers his hand.

Finch takes it with a grin, and Albert grins back.

Some things are worth waiting for, Finch decides. Some things—

He whistles.

_ Please don’t take my sunshine away. _


End file.
